One man’s trash is another man’s treasure

This evening, on November 7th, I had my first trash disposal incident.  I had been warned, but I didn’t quite expect this.  I had heard horror stories of volunteers coming home to find children playing with feminine products on their fingers like Edward Scissorhands.  Katie, my neighbor, had had her trash bag ripped out of her hands to then watched the children tear the bag apart in the middle of a cornfield.  But I am lucky, I have a burning pit for my trash. 

My burning pit is a cement square that comes about waist high.  It had filled up with water during the rainy season and I just noticed yesterday that it had finally dried up, creating the first time since at site that I could actually use it.  It was just before dusk and “burn trash” was the last thing on my to-do list for the week.  I had been putting it off because there was a crowd of children at my house all afternoon and I didn’t want them to get any ideas, but then in a moment of weakness I thought maybe they were too distracted by the American magazines I had given them to notice me.  Plus my trash bags were the black plastic bags that are used for everything here, and didn’t exactly scream “I’m full of trash”.  I was wrong.  As soon as I walked out of the house with the bags I caught their attention.  One girl took one of my bags out of my hand as I walked to the burning pit.  She tends to insist on helping me do everything I may be doing- laundry, dishes, sweeping- and she seemed to be rather calm as she walked with me so I thought she may just want to carry the bag for me.  Then a little boy hopped up and sat on the edge of the burning pit, feet dangling in, and asked for my second bag of trash.  I thought maybe for a second he was going to help me, show me the proper way to burn trash.  Kids get really excited to burn things is the states, why wouldn’t they get excited here as well?  He immediately dumped out the bag and then hopped into the pit and started rummaging.  Instantly there were 4 other children in the pit with him and several leaning in over the sides, they ascended on the trash like vultures.  Oh no, I thought, this is my worst nightmare.  Wrappers and plastic bags were flying everywhere as they tore threw the trash like ravenous animals.  There was one little boy who kept asking me what everything was, or was from- a potato chip bag, cardboard from the fry pan my grandmother sent me, even the wrapper from a pad.  They found old tuna cans and literally started to lick them clean. One of my favorite girls found the wrapper from the parmesan cheese my grandmother had sent and turned it inside out and was licking it- now I finished that cheese about 3 weeks ago, making that cheese residue almost a month old.  Some of the stuff in the bag had been their since my first week at site- about 70 days ago!  Great, I’m going to get the children sick.  They are going to get food poisoning from my trash. 

Power bar wrappers were licked spotless.  Any food wrapper was considered a bonbon.  The cheese covering from baby belles was chewed like gum.  Tin tuna cans were taken.  One girl was especially pleased over a dead pen.  An old and very dirty toothbrush cover, which I had used on my toothbrush for everyday for 4 months, was literally fought over.  Plastic and pieces of cardboard from packaging were taken.  It was incredible. 

After about 10 to 15 minutes and me saying “ok, ce fini!” several times, I finally got them to stop and get out of my trash pit.  As soon as all body parts were out of the way I started lighting it on fire for fear that they would try to grab out another treasure.  Just as I started the fire a mother came by and looked on for a minute.  I’m fairly positive if it wasn’t already light she might have dug in to see what she could find as well. 

While the children ran home with their goodies, hiding them for each other so nothing would be stolen from them, I spent the next 5 minutes walking around my yard picking up all the trash they had thrown out and about.  Needless to say, next time I will wait until no one is near my house to bring out the trash.                     

Le CSPS

In a recent letter from my grandma she asked if the village health care clinic was an actual building, which made me realize that I often use acronyms or French words that don’t translate well and might not fully explain them.  Yes, there is an actual building for the clinic, 3 in fact.  Let me introduce you to the Centre de Sante et Promotion Sociale, or CSPS for short. 

I’ll start with the pharmacy, since it is the easiest.  The pharmacy is a small, one room building a short walking distance from the rest of the CSPS buildings.  It’s an open room with long countertop splitting the room in half, and sitting on the other side behind a desk you will find Roger, book keeping or playing on his new fancy blackberry-type phone.  There are 3 large shelving units behind the counter with stacks of medicines lining them and then several boxes full of meds on the floor around Roger’s desk.  The pharmacy keeps stocked in the most common medicines, but anything too strong or not as common has to be purchased at the district medical center, 18 KM away.  Also, the stoop of the pharmacy seems to be the only place in village that I can sometimes get a bar of cell phone service, sometimes, on a good day. 

Next there is le dispensaire.  This is where I spend most of my mornings. The design of the building is 7 rooms and the waiting area that form a square with an open-air area in the middle.  I have no idea what the point of the open part is, but there is a tree and it’s not used for anything.  Once you walk into the building you enter the waiting area, naturally, where the walls are lined with built-in cement benches.  The building is supposedly cleaned, there is a janitor lady, but I’ve never seen her there.  It’s not overly dirty, but I wouldn’t call it clean either.  Cob webs cover the walls and bugs are everywhere.  Since there are so many flies and ants and little flying things, you can almost always find at least one toad hopping about in and out of rooms.  And there are probably so many flies because babies aren’t diapered and pee at will.  Sometimes mothers will wipe up the pee if it’s on the bench, but not likely and never off the floor.  Baby pee is viewed as nothing unusual here or something to fret over, I’ve even seen mothers let their babies play in/with their pee.  Also, it is not uncommon for a chicken to wander in and about.   

To the left of the waiting room is the consultation room.  There are two filing cabinets that hold all the CSPS documents, and examination table, and a desk.  Generally, the malade will come in and sit in front of he desk and tell the infirmier their symptoms.  Their temperature will be taken, if it’s a baby the nurse will feel its’ belly, once in a great while they will be weighed or blood pressure will be taken, and then a script will be written for something.  I have seen a few malaria tests betaken on toddlers, but I’m not sure how often this is done, certainly not all 100 something cases a month.  

To the right of the waiting room is the petite surgery room, where injections are given or wounds are bandaged.  However, if an IV is being put in (for malaria, usually) then that has to be done outside where there is more light, since there is no electricity in the CSPS.  This is usually done out back, where people can’t watch.  There is a room with beds in it where people with IVs or that are really sick can lay down, most often used by mothers with sick children.  This is the room where the “come lady” and her grandson, “Little man”, lived with her husband for well over a month while he recovered from a head injury. (They have since left the CSPS, much to my dismay as I enjoyed playing with Little Man, but the husband came in today to get his would checked on.  He gave me a big hello and Fulfulde greeting.  It feels good to be recognized warmly.)  There are also several other beat up mattresses that get laid out on the floor wherever there is space on a busy day.  There is a room that seems to only be used to house the car battery that is hooked up to the solar panel and for sick overflow, a storage room, and then 2 rooms that aren’t used at all for anything. 

Down the path from the dispensaire is la maternite.  I’ve only been in the maternite a handful of times, so I don’t know it as well but it seems to be almost the exact set-up as the dispensaire.  There is the consultation room for consults pre-natal, which has no other equipment besides an examination table, a filing cabinet, and a desk for the accoucheuse. I’ve helped with CPNs twice- the women are weighed, height is taken, sometimes blood pressure is taken, then they lay on the table and their bellies are felt up (a stethoscope may be used, I can’t remember), and then a bunch of stuff is recorded in a notebook for the CSPS and in a booklet the women keep, tests that may or may not have been taken.  Other rooms of the maternite include a birthing room, a recovery room which just has a few beds in it, and a storage room that has the CSPS vaccination fridge in it.  The fridge is hooked up to a gas tank, but I don’t know how that works.  The other rooms of the maternite remain a mystery to me, and I’d like to keep it that way (there are lots of stories of volunteers assisting with births, no thanks!).             

If you keep going down the path you will find the CSPS staff houses, and I have to say they are the nicest houses in village.  They were build by the same NGO that built the CSPS, so they are real, legitimate houses made out of real building materials.  Not too shabby. 

And so this is the CSPS, where my work is based out of.  Every morning is spent in the waiting room, where I sit and greet people and take temperatures.  I make babies cry.  Daily.  But I’ve seen them cry at the infirmier when he takes temperatures as well, so I like to think they are just afraid of being poked at, even though I know some are afraid of me because I’m white. Recently I’ve been passing the time by looking over old CSPS documents and gathering information for my “Etude de milieu” report.  We’ll see how I spend my days once I start doing projects.                      

Frisbee club?

On Tuesday, October 19th, 2010, I did the best thing I could have done for the children of village.  No, I didn’t teach them to wash their grubby little hands or read and write; I had my first Ultimate Frisbee lesson!

Their interest had been peaked the Sunday past, when a fellow volunteer visited me and, much to appease me, he asked if we could throw around the disc.  He was more amused by me then the actual act of playing catch- it had been almost 3 months since I had touched a disc and I was practicing my throws and steeping out, “taking it seriously” as he put it, and the whole time he said I had a huge smile on my face and was as giddy as a school girl.  What can I say, I love Ultimate.  Subsequently, throwing out in my front yard we became the village attraction.  It took no time at all before ALL the children gathered around to watch.  Even men passing by on their bike or women walking from the center of town to their homes with big basins on their head would stop and watch the two nasaras make fools of themselves with the disc. It was a lovely Sunday Afternoon. 

It was the following Tuesday, and I had finally just gotten a small group of girls to leave my house for a little peace and quiet, when a boy around the age of 10 came to my doorstep and asked to lancer and did a flicking motion with his wrist.  Well, okay.  Who am I to deny someone the joy of throwing a disc around?  Soon we had gathered a crowd of children.  Two stood out as having real potential with their throws- the boy, Sergio, and a girl named Ida.   Sergio had a good start on his backhand, just needed to flatten it out, and when I showed him and gave in instructions in English he still seemed to understand.  Ida’s first instinct was a flick, so I showed her the proper way to hold the disc and to keep her forearm level with the ground.  I realize now I was thinking too big, as then Ida and Sergio tried to help each other and other children learn to throw but would fight over the right way to do it and confuse the two throws.  After that I decided to just let the children get use to the disc in their hands and slowly I would critique their throws.  We played for about an hour, mainly Ida, Sergio, a few other little boys and I, but others would step in and give it a try.  Then as dusk approached and it became harder to see the disc Sergio caught it and brought it over to me, thanked me, and did a little curtsy-type bow that they are taught in school.  Then all the other children followed suit and said goodbye. 

The next day Sergio came back by himself and asked to throw.  We had a good bit of time just the two of us before the masses joined and I think he liked it this way, because I could actually throw it to him and he could learn from me.  We did only back hand throws and I didn’t have to instruct him at all, he just observed me and followed exactly what I did, a mirror image.  It struck me how incredible it is that so much can be taught through non-verbal communication, although it made me a little nervous since I don’t have the best throws in the world and I’m not sure he should be copping what I do.  Still, it was very cute; he started to step out a little when he threw and even picked up the little up down flick of the wrist I do before each throw (which I know a lot of Ultimate players do, but I’m now wondering if they should do it).  After a while a small group of children, including Ida, joined us and then at dusk we called it a day. 

Thursday, Sergio showed up at my house just after noon asking to throw.  I think he was thinking it was earlier then usual and we could get in some throws before everyone else came, but I was thinking it was dreadfully hot and I wanted to nap.  I told him to come back at 17 heure.  About an hour or so later, while I was writing a letter home under my hanger, he came back and asked again to throw.  No Sergio, I said dix-sept heure! Pas encore! I don’t want to come off as mean, but the children CONSTANTLY ask for things, and if you don’t set boundaries they will walk all over you.  Finally, at 5 till 17, Sergio came back and said it’s time.  We got in a few throws the two of us before 3 other little boys joined.  They stood in the line and I would throw to each of them in turn and they would throw it back to me.  Then Ida and another girl I did not know came for the marche to join, so I tried to make a circle so we could all play.  The circle idea took a little minute to catch on, as the children, it seems, are more use to forming lines, and even when they got the circle concept their was an order and we  had to throw to the same person each time.  Our throwing pattern made a perfect star.  It’s interesting to pick up on how structured their schooling is.  A man coming from the marche, or dolo bar, stopped to watch for a second and then thanked me for something (playing or putting up with the kids?), saying “ce bon!”.  I have, in a way, become the afterschool program for the children. 

As the sun started to set our circle dwindled to 4 and we moved close together and passed to the person next to us.  Perfect time to practice my push pass, a short throw I never mastered in college.  It made me think of another fellow GWU Ultimate alumni who taught himself how to flick the disc full field with his toes while in the Peace Corps.  Yup, I can now understand exactly how he had the time or the circumstance to do that.  Then when it got too dark to see I said it was enough for the day.  I got the usual thanking and Sergio said same time tomorrow?  We agreed, 17 heure we would play catch.  Then the swarm of children, there had he 10 to 15 who were too small to play sitting around watching, all wanted to shake my hand and say goodnight.  “Bonsoir! Bonsoir! Bonsoir! et a demain!”

Unfortunately I got a last minute call to meet up with the other regional volunteers on Friday for the marche and a visit and missed our 17 heure Frisbee time.  Since there are no formed groups in my village, no women’s group or community club, starting a children’s club could be a perfect avenue for me to do projects.  Yes we can play Ultimate, but first let me teach you how to wash your hands and why, etc.  They all come to my house everyday anyways, might as well use it to my advantage.  However, since I missed that Friday and on Saturday I wasn’t feeling well so I gave Sergio the disc but I sat out, he quickly discovered playing with children who don’t know how to throw is not near as much fun, and then Ida got a bad cut on her leg and couldn’t play, and since then my Frisbee club-to-be has been dwindling.  I’m still hopeful though, I’ve just got to pump up the interest again!                           

Care Packages

First and foremost, I want to thank everyone who has sent me things.  THANK YOU!  All the letters, magazines, clothes, home goods, and, most of all, all the food items.  I have been truly blessed with wonderful friends and family and am unbelievably grateful for everything I've received. 

I’ve been at site for 47 days now and feel that I finally have a pretty good grasp on what my resources are here and how/where to get things.  While getting simple things, like toilet paper, can be a challenge and requires planning far in advance, I’m learning that everything I really need to survive can be found.  However it takes some work.  I live in the bush, quite literally. To get to my village requires a 4-7K bike ride on a bush road that, when it rains, can be impassable in a car. The marché in my village is usually really small, around 10 ladies, and on a good day I can get okra, eggplant, and tomatoes.  I have to bike 7K to get to a larger market, and about 16K to get to the best market around, which offers whatever is in season and some simple food staples, such as powdered milk and margarine, and a selection of African home-goods (nails, small mirrors, etc).  Anything that is more Western, like cereal or jam, or that you would want nicer then is offered at the marché, has to be purchased in Ouaga, which can be expensive (for Burkina), and requires quite the trip. 

That being said, I’ve been getting lots of questions of what do you need/ what can we send you.  Here are some care package suggestions.  The number one thing is food items- I’m a fat kid at heart and LOVE to eat, which is a problem here since getting food is a hassle and the diet here is extremely limited and bland (Would you like beans and rice, or beans and rice?). Also I divided up the list into items I have not seen in Burkina Faso, or are extremely rare, and items I can find, but are a different brand/ just not the same as in America, and things that would just make my life a little bit better -none of which I desperately need, but would love to have sometimes.  I know the list is a bit long, but most items are adapted from the generic “care-package” list.  Plus I have a lot of time to think about and crave all the foods I miss.   

Things I can’t buy here:

Brownie Mix 

Sun dried tomatoes

Dried or dehydrated fruits or vegetables (Banana chips and dried apricots are a favorite, berries would be amazing)

Granola bars/ breakfast bars/ energy bars/ bars of any kind

Granola

Trail mix

Beef Jerky

Parmesan cheese

Salsa con quaso/ nacho cheese (I’ve been lucky enough to have 2 dinners with another volunteer who had cheese in jar/can, and it made the meal so much better)

Cheese, really any type or form  

Vanilla

Any type of garlic spice

Basil & Oregano and the like

Spices: Lemon pepper, cumin, Mrs. Dash or All Spice, Taco, anything that makes food delicious  

Sauce/gravy/dressing/spice/ any type of flavorings

Nuts (NOT peanuts, pine nuts would be amazing)

Hair things (bobby pins, headbands- not to be fashionable, but it’s hot here and I have to do something with it)

Things I can buy here, but not American Brands:

Salsa (I LOVE Tostitos Mild, so if there is ever extra room in a flat rate box this would make my week!)

Cake Mix (for birthdays/holidays or breads)

Condiment packets ( can buy condiments here, but there is no way to refrigerate after opening)  

Quaker oatmeal squares/ delicious cereal

Instant oatmeal or grits (strawberries and cream or cheesy grits are my favorite)

Flavored drink mixes (I like the ones that have protein or something, so I feel like I’m adding more than just sugar to my bleach water)

Mac’n Cheese

Tuna in a bag (the tuna creations and steaks are infinitely better than anything here)

real Peanut Butter (not “All Natural”)

 

Things that would just make life a little bit better:

S’more Pop Tarts (they aren’t good for you, but they are delicious…)

Grains/carbs other then white rice, couscous, or macaroni (Israeli couscous, quinoa and orzo would be a welcome change!)

Candy/sweets (dark chocolate doesn’t seem to melt!)

“Just add water” type mixes (these have been wonderful!)

Soup packets (I’ve been craving Miso)

Bread mixes (banana, pumpkin, corn bread)

Instant mashed potatoes

maple syrup

cookies

Magazines of any sort (They are like currency to PCVs)

Any interesting news articles (I can’t even get radio signal in village, so I’m totally in the dark)

Clothes Magazines (to take to the tailor as models- I especially like Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters)

Good Books

Dr. Bronner’s magic Soap

Any Burt’s Bees product

Stationary and envelopes

Any delicious, simple recipes (especially for eggplant or okra)

Goodies for a Thanksgiving dinner, especially canned pumpkin (I’m planning ahead, because I love to eat)

Note on Packaging: Unless you are sending anything extremely light, I strongly suggest a flat rate international box. Also, taking items that are individually wrapped out of their outer packaging can save space, such as drink mixes or granola bars.

BOOBS!

I was sitting in the waiting room of the CSPS, doing my new job of taking everyone’s temperature, and couldn’t help but admire this Peul woman sitting with her baby.  She was very tall and slender, as most Peul women are, and she had exquisite soft yet defined facial features. I couldn’t help but thing, “America’s Next Top Model could do wonders with this women”.  Yet there was something off, and I didn’t know what it was until she stood up and I realized that she had abnormally large breast… that hung around her stomach like a pool float.  I couldn’t help but analyze the situation the hole rest of the time she was at the CSPS- She was skinny with such large boobs that if they were in the right spot she would be a life size Barbie.  But her boobs sagged so low she actually had to life them up when she adjusted her pagne skirt.  Her child, about a year old, could lay with his head in her lap and breast feed.  This made ne notice all the boobs in the waiting room- I see a lot of them. I mean A LOT.  

Breast feeding here is used like a pacifier at home- if a baby starts to fuss just wave a tit in it’s face.  Women walk around all the time with a boob out, just chilling, for her child to grab at any time.  Or sometimes they will be peeking out from under neither her shirt, like a game of peek-a-boo, and she may walk around like that (Why bother with a shit at all?). And the children know that they can just go up to their mother and latch on, holding a tit like they are sucking a water balloon.  I’ve even seen some babies prod and pull on their mothers breast, like they are trying to milk her into their mouth.  One little girl at the CSPS the other day was actually suckling on one tit and tweaking the nipple of the other.  Every couple of minutes she would switch boobs. If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve seen more boobs in the first month I’ve been here then most 17 year old boys.  And it’s totally no big deal for me to take a babies temperature, via the armpit, while it’s attached to a breast, or for the Major to examine a baby while it’s still on the boob.  Breast feeding is the best thing for the child, so it’s good it;s so widely accepted here, but it’s slightly odd that women are not allowed so show their kneecaps, but going topless it totally fine. 

And bras? Who needs them?!  The only women here that wear them are wealthier women that may come from functionaire families or really young mothers, like my age or younger.  No doubt that is because this is the demographic that would be most interested in Western culture.  This leads to a lot of very unfortunately shaped breasts.  One women bent over the other day to tie her biega on her back and her one breast flopped out of her shirt and hung there perfectly shaped like a sausage link.  It was all I could do not to stare, but it was long and perfectly round and looked exactly like a bratwurst.  Most women have unbelievably saggy breast, which remind me of my sister singing “do your boobs hang low” when we were children.  You know how usually you have to hold a baby up to the breast, well not here.  They have to lift the boob to the baby as it sits on the lap. Older women’s breasts hang on their chests like deflated balloons, stretched out and drained form a countless number of children.  And there is hardly a trace of breasts at all on grandmothers, they’ve almost completely been dissipated. 

No wonder I look so funny to these women, My ta-tas are in the anatomically correct position.                

The Village People

It’s hard to say that I’m really making friends in village, since I can’t speak the same language at 90% of the people around, but I’m making “friends”!  Here is a run down of the most memorable people in village:

The Major of the CSPS (the CSPS is the village health clinic), my counterpart, is a serious but friendly man.  He is middle aged, I’d say in his 40’s, and is a very hard worker.  He is nice and very patient with me and my French, but doesn’t really go out of his way to make conversation or anything like that.  I think he is a bit introverted, and leaves me to do my own thing, which is fine by me.  That said, he is quick to smile and will crack jokes, sometimes.  

There are two other immediate staff members at the CSPS, Emanuel and Sylvie.  Emanuel is another nurse/doctor type.  He is not as hard working as the Major, probably why he’s not the Major, and seems to get annoyed with people sometimes, but he is always nice to me, in a when-I’m-busy-don’t-both-me type of way.  He seems slightly more extroverted and when the CSPS is slow he tries to make conversation- usually an English/French lesson.  As long as the CSPS isn’t filled with lots of sick people, he’s a good person to ask questions to and enjoy.  Sylvie is Burkina’s version of a mid-wife/OBGYN, and is always beautifully dressed in a Comple, a full outfit made out of pagnes.  She seems the type that does not want to do any extra work/seems a little annoyed that she has to work at all.  She often has to fill in and do the Major/Emanuel’s job if one or both of them are away.  She is generally nice and patient with me, but I get the impression she views me as more work when I am sent to help her in the maternity, because of language barriers.  As a women working in Burkina she seems to has a tough, no bullshit exterior while she is working but lightens up a bit if patients aren’t around.   She is also the only functionaire woman in village, that I’ve really meet.  She passed me on her moto the other day, and she was in front driving while a man road on the back.  Now this is something you rarely see in the States, much less Burkina, so I’ve decided she must be a badass.   

Roger, the pharmacist, is the person I could actually call my friend.  He’s the one person I interact most with, as he’s the person that helps me with everything.  He is young, mid to late 20s, and has a great smile and happy personality.  Everyday he comes to my house to help me get water (You try carrying a 20L water jug on your bike!) and sometimes he brings me things that you can’t buy in village and have to “know somebody” to get, like eggs and guava.  He speaks a little English, took it in school, so between my French and his English we can usually hold a decent conversation/ he helps me understand what the hell is going on most of the time.  I’m very grateful he is around and so friendly, but I pray that he really is married, not that it matters here, and his “gifts” are not something I need to worry about. 

Then there is Allen, Claude, and Ellie, the three guys that help with some stuff at the CSPS.  I don’t see or interact with them much, but they at least speak French and know my name, so when I do s'ee them we can at least have a superficial conversation (i.e. greet each other).  It’s nice to hear someone say “Bonjour Ashley” on the street then always “nasara”.

There is one young woman I’ve meet, older then me but not by a whole lot, who I hope get to know better.  Her name is Sally and we met at the Major’s fete.  She speaks very good French and has a list of American friends I believe she said she worked with, meaning she is well educated and must either be a functionaire or come from a functionaire family.  She also had her nose pierced(!), however she is Muslim so it might be a religious thing.  She speaks Fufalda and was sad that I did not, so I’m guessing her ethnicity is Puel, so the nose ring might also be a Puel thing.  I’ve only seen her one other time and I believe she lives in a satellite village, but she is one of the only women I’ve meet that I can really speak to, outside of the CSPS, and she is very nice, so I hope to run into her again and become friends.    

I don’t know anyone else’s names, so I have given the people that I recognize and like nicknames.  First there is the "Sassy Grandma”.  The first time I meet this women she came into my yard as I was dumping a bucket is dish water and asked me why I was wearing a bar.  No joke.  At least, I think that’s what she was saying- it was all in gestures, since she speaks Moore, but she did something like folding her chest up and confining it and making the why motion and pointing at me- so clearly asking why I wear a bra, right?  Well, lady, so my boobs don’t look like yours.  The next time I saw her she tried to say something to Katie and I in Moore and all we got was eye, doctor, and money, but she spoke with such sass that I expected her to snap her fingers and say “oh, no you didn’t!"  Last week I passed her coming out of the maternity with a brand new, white baby that she proudly showed me. (Note of observation: when white babies are born, they are pink.  When black babies are born, they are white.) Now I’m pretty sure that was not her baby, unless she is the skinniest pregnant lady ever, hence “Sassy Grandma”.  She is a hoot.   

Then there is the “Head Lady”.  I’ve only seen this lady a hand full of times, but every time I see her she asks why I’m not carrying things on my head.  usually she asks why I am not carrying my water jug on my head (as translated through Roger).  Are you crazy, lady?  I can barely life a full water jug, much less put is on my head.  And then I saw a 10 year old girl carry one on her head…  The last time I saw her she asked why I had nothing on my head and told me that she was carrying sticks on her head, and she was, in fact, carrying a woodpile on her 70 year old head.  She has a big toothless smile and I love seeing this old woman. 

Next there is the “come woman” (come means water in Moore, pronounced like comb).  I think her husband is currently living at the CSPS with a bad head injury, and she has been there to care for him.  I’ve seen her there everyday for about the last 2 to 3 weeks, and she is always followed around by a 4 or 5 year old “little man” whom I presume is a grandson.  He is rather cute as well, a shy yet self assured little boy.  When there are people in the waiting area is a bashful, but when no one is around he warms up to me.  I think he is bored at the CSPS all day everyday and just wants someone to play with.  The first time I met “come lady” she was highly amused that I carried water with me in a nalgene and then kept offering me her water because she knew I wouldn’t/couldn’t drink it.  Everyday for the first week I saw this women she would greet me and then rub her arm and point at mine and then make the “leaving” hand gesture.  I can only infer something about me being white and either when am I going back or why did I come.  Anyways she always jokes about me being white, like how babies are scared of me, and now anytime I have any marks on my skin, like the heat rash I’ve acquired on my neck, she always points it out.  She seems really amused that there is a white girl living in village.  I actually have no idea what she’s saying ever, besides the greetings, but she seems completely good natured and always seems happy to see me. 

I have 2 favorite older men.  First there is my “Moore teacher”.  This man has been at the CSPS everyday for the last good while, and I think his daughter or someone is there with malaria.  He only speaks to me in Moore, even though I’m pretty sure he secretly speaks French well.  He tries to teach me something new in Moore every time I see him, often several times a day.  I’ve got head, stomach, hand, nose and mouth down.  He’s very friendly and really appreciates my efforts.  My second favorite older man I don’t really have a name for, but he really amuses me.  He is very tall and sturdy, in his 60s or 70s, and reminds me of an African “Big Bob”.  He always wears long pants and a long-sleeve button up, despite the heat, and wears a nit winter hat loosely on the top of his head and carries around a messenger bag from some vaccination campaign USAID did that always appears to be empty.  He always stops in the side of the path to shake my hand and smiles big with is missing nubbins for teeth that are always orange from Kola nuts.            

Then there are all the “petites”.  There are a lot, a lot of children that mill around my house all the time.  And often there seems to be one or two new ones that I don’t recognize, a new face.  There are a couple that I don’t mind in a small group, but more then 5 gets to be too much and makes me feel like a sideshow attraction.  There is one little girl that doesn’t come around that often, but I love running into her.  I call her my “African Ava”.  She is about baby Ava’s age and has a very similar, adorable personality.  Without sounding racist, She actually looks a bit like a black version of Ava.  I just learned her name is Emma, and doesn’t “Emma and Ava” just sound like they should be friends and play princesses together. I could actually see her twirling in a princess dress, but I doubt she has ever seen a TV, much less knows what Disney is. 

My favorite petite is a 5 or 6 little girl that is named Angle or Angela or some form there of, and is at my house most often.  She is the granddaughter of the Chief de Village, and therefore lives in the neighboring compound.  She is too little to speak any French and doesn’t speak Moore, so I literally have no way of talking to her besides sign language.  She is very sweet and cute, slightly shy, and always smiling at me.  She is happy to just sit next to me in my courtyard while I read or write, which I like opposed to other children that try to ask me for things or want to show me things or speak in some language at me that I can’t understand.  She is usually accompanied with one of two other little girls, one of which is named Kristine, but she is my favorite. 

There is also one little boy, maybe 7 or 8, that I get a kick out of.  He speaks a little French, so we can communicate a tinny bit.  He seems a little mischievous and is full of personality, but in a fun way, like the kind of little boy you can tease and play with, but know that it’s all in fun and when you politely ask him to leave he will.  I have a hard time getting the petites to leave me alone sometimes. 

And then there is my mouse, Jared.  When I first found him I thought he was kind of cute and told him not to run away from me.  I even would leave him my leftovers in a tuna can, thinking if I gave him food he wouldn’t get into mine, and we could be friends and I’d call him Gus and he’d sing to me and make me a dress for the ball. False.  So I named him Jared instead, after my favorite Pike Floyd song.  Now every night when I lock up my kitchen I play the “What will Jared Eat” game, a game I use to play with Big Bunny only I was actually trying to feed Big, and take everything I think he will eat into my other room.  Attempt number one to get ride of Jared failed- I mixed up a rat poison and foods he usually eats concoction and left it out for him, but he just ate the cheese off the top and moved on to eat my tomatoes on the table.     

There are tons of other children and people, but those are the ones that stand out.  It will be amusing to read this in two years and see what my thoughts are about these people and all the new people I’ve meet. 

FML

My life, it seems, has turned into a series of FML moments. (For my family who isn’t up with pop culture, FML is an expression used when something awkward, ironic, or bad happens to you but in a comical way. Kind of like “my life is a joke”) The joke that there should be a Peace Corps FML website started during Stage when a couple of my friends and I biked 5k to our favorite “American” restaurant only to be disappointed that everything we actually wanted to eat was “finished,” then we biked another 2k to find internet, during which time we got caught in a rain storm.  My friend Austin was wearing blue printed pagne pants that he got made here in Burkina, and the dye from the fabric started running and staining his skin blue, inspiring this comment, “I just biked several miles to eat laughing cow cheese smeared on a stale baguette and then get caught in a torrential downpour causing my goofy-ass, badly tailored pants, made out cheap made-in-china pagnes, to literally turn my balls blue, in the middle of West Africa- FML!”  It’s true, as PCVs we’re constantly put in situations what are strange, bizarre, and totally ridiculous to the average American, leading us to ponder is this seriously my life?

It was confirmed that my life is now a joke on 13th day of being at site.  It started off just as any other day- woke up at 6 a.m. to the sound of the Chief de Village’s wives pounding corn in the neighboring compound, got dressed, ate my cornflakes and powdered milk, and was to work at the CSPS just after 8 a.m.  Despite the CSPS “opening” at 7:30, the staff straggled in around 8:20. After helping prepare the supplies for the trachoma campaign we had been doing that week in all the surrounding villages, I was told that the satellite village they were going to today was “too far” (12K- less then I have to bike to buy groceries) and the route was pas bon, and I was to reste ici for the day. I suspect they just didn’t want to wait for me to ride my bike while they were on motos, but I needed to go to the marche in a neighboring village anyways so I was fine with not going.  After about an hour of sitting awkwardly in the consultation room watching the Major see patients, he told me I should go to the marche now, because today was the end of Ramadan and he was having a fete at 12 or 1 this afternoon.  Alright, that sounds like a plan; so I hopped on my bike and start the 7K ride, not thinking too much about the midday heat.

Now my trip to the neighboring village was two-fold: first of all, I desperately needed a washbasin so that I can finally do laundry, and secondly I needed to confer with Katie, the volunteer that lives there, about going to the district capital on Monday.  After about 45 minutes to an hour of peddling, I roll up to Katie’s house, only to find it empty.  I had rode past her CSPS on the way and didn’t see her bike, so I knew she wasn’t there… balls! I wait about 10 minutes hoping that she’d show up, I’m hot and sweaty from the ride so I finish off the last of the water that I had brought and I search for cell service, which you can usually get at her house, before I give up and bike over to the marche- maybe she’s already there?  Once I get to the marche I’m disheartened to find that the marche is also empty.  Then it occurs to me that today is the end of Ramadan, this area is predominantly Muslim, and all of the venders are probably within that huge group of people I saw flocking to the mosque on my way into town.  My Major is Muslim, and has lived here for years, couldn’t he have tuned me into the fact that everything closes down for the end of Ramadan before sending me on my way?

So I turn around and head home, empty handed, completely failing at both things I had biked there for.  I got just to the outskirts of Katie’s village and finally picked up just enough cell service to receive the text she sent my the day before, telling me that she would be out with the trachoma campaign in the morning and that I should come in the afternoon.  Perfect.  Wish I would have known that before i left for my failed mission. 

As I’m biking into my own village I run into Roger, the pharmacist.  I tell him where I’m coming from and he immediately tells me that there, in fact, would not be a marche today because of the Ramadan fete.  Hmm…  so that common knowledge… I asked him about the Major’s fete and he told me he’d come to my house between 12 and 1 to get me and we’d go to the fete together.  Great, less awkwardness for me! I get home just before 12, down some water and wash up a bit, as I’m a sweat mess, and wait for Roger.  And wait.  And wait.  Finally at 1:30 I get a little anxious about being late to the fete (maybe I miss heard Roger say he’d come get me?), and start to make my way over to the Major’s house, which, mind you, I’ve never been to before and only vaguely know where it is.

I get to his house with relative ease and discover I’m the first guest that isn’t family there.  okay, so I came over a half hour late and was still the first to arrive; I’ll keep that in mind for next time.  I’m ushered into the house and asked to take a seat in the living room with the Major, while the children and some people I don’t know sit outside.  The Major’s wife serves me beesap (delicious hibiscus flower juice), chicken, and prawn chips and I am told to eat, alone.  I am relieved a few minutes later when the other 5 men that work at the CSPS/ help with sorties arrive and join me on the couches.  I’m so excited to eat meat, haven’t done that in 13 days, and the chicken looks real good, but I reserve myself from looking like a fat American in front of my new colleges and try not to inhale the entire plate in front of me.  I limit myself to only 5 pieces, comparable to what the men took.  As I’m sitting, silently, in the Major’s living room, listening to the men talk and me not understanding a word, I realized 3 things.  First, there were no other women in the house, except his wife who was cooking and serving us.  At one point, Alice, the lady who cleans the CSPS, came and ate inside, but not in the circle we were in.  Second, I realized this was a preview of the next 2 years- me with a bunch of men, in a man’s world, feeling awkward because I can’t understand what they are talking about.  This shall be a fun adventure.  Third, about 30 minutes after being there and eating I realized that something wasn’t settling right in my stomach and I was going to be sick, not vomiting sick, but sick none the less.  Almost immediately after eating I could feel it in my entire GI tract, from my esophagus to the anus.  My stomach felt like a rock and I had gurgling in both my upper and lower intestines, everything felt bloated, and I could feel my esophagus, which I think is heart burn?  After about 2 hours of sitting, silently, very uncomfortable, I excuse myself, primarily because I need to bike as fast as I can to my larine.

After hovering over my latrine for a few minutes I looked at my watch and realized I really needed to go- I needed to bike out to the main road to make a phone call, and if I waited much later I’d be biking home in the dark, which is a death wish on my road.  I had planed to meet another volunteer in Ouaga that weekend, however we were doing the trachoma sorti at the CSPS and I needed to push back our plans a couple days.  Seeing as today was Friday, I really needed to firm up those plans.  I pop some Pepto and get on my bike.  On the bush road to the main road, a man passes me on a moto and stops.  I, like a normal person, turn my head to see why he stopped, and the next thing I know I run into a tree stump and am being hurled over my handlebars.  It was like a scene from a movie when a man passes a pretty girl and turns to stare and runs into something, only I just wanted to know why he had stopped just behind me.  I didn’t suffer any bad injuries, just a bleeding toe and my right thigh had been ejected into the metal handle bar and had a nasty burse already forming.  As I picked myself up and got back on my bike I couldn’t help thinking how this day keeps getting better and better.  Finally, after the 4K ride on the bush road and then another Kilometer on the main road to actually find cell service I am able to make my call, all the while thinking “this guy better really appreciate this phone call, I just went over my handlebars while biking 5K to make it AND my intestines feel like they are dying.”  After a less then 10 minute call, I turned around biked the 5K home.

Now there is one part on the bush road I call the swamp monster, because anytime is rains the whole large section turns into a swamp and is almost impassable.  You his this part of the road and it literally eats your bike.  I’ve only made it through is part without getting stuck in mud or wading through a puddle a handful of times.  So of course this time I try for the driest entry point and immediately the mud is too thick for me to peddle through.  So I get off and drag my bike to the nearest spot with firm looking ground, only to discover that in the process of getting stuck my chain fell off my bike.  It’s already getting pretty dark and my stomach is gurgling, but this seems like a perfect for a bike lesson on how to put the chain back on.   

Nothing notable happened that evening, I cooked dinner and got ready for bed, until about 9 p.m. when I got the urge to run to the bathroom.  It was pitch black out and I barely had time to grab my head lamp and the very last of a role of toilet paper, but I made it.  When I tried to exit my latrine, however, I realized that in my haste I had pulled the latrine door too far shut and now the out side latch was stuck in the doorframe.  I pushed and I pulled and did every little jiggle I could think of, but that door was not opening.  I half expected to spend most of my night in the latrine anyways, but couldn’t I at least get some more toilet paper first? At this point I remembered that my headlamp battery was in the red.  This is just great, I’m going to be stuck in my latrine all night with no light and no toilet paper. I thought to myself, “ok, let me get this straight- I woke up this morning to women pounding shit next door, I made a 14K round trip to a closed marche with no Katie, then I went to a fete where I got sick off the food, to then get thrown over my handlebars on the 10K round trip just to make a freakin’ phone call, and now I’m stuck in my latrine… FML!” Out of sheer panic I yanked that latrine door so far back that broke off the outside latch and bent the tin in a way that has still not recovered three weeks later.